Helsinki Noir

by James Thompson

  After a couple of minutes a bearded man in his thirties waddled down the stairs with an elf hat on his head. He was about a meter and a half tall but weighed at least a hundred fifty kilos. The junior club member followed behind him.

  “You?” Jake said, sending the hanger-on back upstairs.

  Suhonen had done a lot of undercover work, but that wasn’t possible anymore among Helsinki’s biker gangs. Too many people knew him, like Jake did.

  Jake stopped a couple of meters away. He looked comical in his gang vest and elf hat. He had a half-eaten Christmas tart in one hand.

  “What now?” he asked. “Damn it. It’s midnight on Christmas Eve. We’re singing Christmas carols with our wives and kids.”

  Suhonen had to laugh. They were probably eating frozen pizza off some Russian stripper’s chest.

  “Where have you been this evening?”

  “Are you questioning me? If you are, I need a lawyer present.”

  “Jake,” Suhonen smiled, “I came here by myself. I can make one call and have the bears here. They’re right around the corner. If I do that then you’ll all have to come down to the station and tell us where you’ve been. You and your wife and kids, and the Russian strippers.”

  “Today, you mean?”

  Suhonen was surprised at how easily he gave in. “Yeah.”

  “Earlier this evening I was over at Max’s house and then I came here to set up this party, which naturally has gone all to hell because that damn Max didn’t come like he promised he would. He was supposed to be Santa Claus.”

  “Was he?” Suhonen said. “When did you get here?”

  “About seven.”

  “Any evidence of that? Other than your friends saying so, I mean?”

  “What’s this about?”

  Suhonen stared at the fat fellow sternly. “Evidence?”

  “I don’t have anything to hide. I went over to that shithead’s house to make sure he was really coming and wasn’t shitfaced. He offered me some mulled wine and then I came here. I’m sure you can see it on the surveillance camera.”

  Jake toddled past Suhonen into the guard booth and clicked a mouse a couple of times. The monitor showed a real-time photo record. He dragged the cursor on the front door video footage to the left and in a couple of seconds he’d found a picture of himself going in the door. The record was marked 7:03 p.m.

  “I’m sure my cell phone record supports it too,” he said, pulling the phone out of his pocket and offering it to Suhonen.

  “I believe you.” Suhonen wasn’t actually sure if the time marked on the video was accurate, but it would be easy enough to check later.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Let’s just say Max has a good excuse for not being here. Do you want to hear about it?”

  Jake thought for a moment. “Not really. We’re right in the middle of a nice party. I’d rather not turn it into a wake—if I’m understanding you correctly.”

  Suhonen’s expression told Jake he was understanding correctly. “Was somebody after Max?”

  Jake shook his head, his cheeks wobbling. “You know what the Brigade’s like nowadays. We don’t . . . Well, let’s just say that we can’t afford to fight with anybody anymore. Nobody’s after us.”

  “What time was Max supposed to be here?”

  “Preferably nine-ish, but ten at the latest. Santa was supposed to get here by ten.”

  * * *

  “I don’t understand why they had to put the head in the Christmas tree,” Joutsamo said.

  They were sitting in the conference room. Someone had left some Christmas ham in the fridge and they were eating slices of it on rye bread with a squirt of sweet mustard.

  The case was upsetting. Her rounds of the building where the murder occurred had spoiled dozens of people’s Christmas Eves, although that didn’t much matter from the police’s point of view. It bothered her anyway, though. Their job was to clean up the ugly side of society like garbage collectors clean up the streets—no fuss, out of sight, without disturbing anybody. It hadn’t worked this evening.

  She was also annoyed that they hadn’t made any progress with the case. It was nearly one in the morning and the perpetrator already had several hours’ head start. There were surveillance cameras in East Pasila, but of course they couldn’t get at their contents on Christmas Eve.

  The fingerprints on the wineglasses hadn’t been any use.

  “In a murder investigation, you’ve got to look for probabilities, if you’ve got nothing else. The extreme violence of the case points to mental health issues.”

  “Silent night, holy night,” Suhonen crooned with a grin, out of tune, chomping on his bread.

  “You’re right about that. It has something to do with Christmas,” Joutsamo said.

  “Karstu was supposed to be Santa at the gang’s Christmas party tonight,” Suhonen said, wiping mustard off his mouth. “Although at a place like that, being Santa might mean something completely different.”

  Takamäki shook his head. “Now we’re just speculating. Shall we leave it till morning?”

  “No,” Joutsamo said. “Let’s get it done.”

  Takamäki went over the facts of the case again. Karstu had been at home, Jake came over sometime after six and drank a cup of mulled wine. Based on the driving time, Jake had left around quarter to seven. The probable time of the murder was sometime between eight thirty and nine thirty.

  There was a code to get in the door of the building and the tenants there had confirmed that no one had squeezed in the door behind them. Of course the perpetrator might have known the door code, but that would indicate that it was someone Max knew. There were no signs of struggle.

  There were no wounds on the victim’s hands, so the first blow of the knife had been to the chest, and had come by surprise. There were about ten knife wounds.

  “Why would he leave the door open?” Takamäki wondered aloud. “What was the hurry to leave? After all, it must have taken awhile to saw off the head.”

  A large man in coveralls appeared in the doorway—Kannas. “Is there any ham left?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

  Kannas was the head of technical investigations. He’d come in himself, not wanting to call in his underlings on Christmas Eve.

  Takamäki smiled. Kannas was a veteran of the Helsinki police force and they’d spent the 1980s watching the president’s office in the freezing winter wind. You used to see police on foot back then. Now they were all in cars.

  Kannas went over to the ham, grabbed a piece, and put it on a slice of bread. He slathered on a triple helping of mustard, and took a large bite of the sandwich before continuing: “He wasn’t necessarily in a hurry to leave.”

  “How so?”

  “The dead bolt was turned, so the door wouldn’t close. He may have tried to close it and not been able to if he felt a little panicked. It’s one of those old German locks where if you pull on the door and press down on the handle, the dead bolt clicks out. It’s easy to do it by accident if you’re not used to the door. So the perpetrator might not have been able to get the door closed.”

  “So the door wasn’t left open on purpose,” Joutsamo said. “There were no fingerprints on the lock . . .”

  “No. We found a clumsily concealed false back to the wardrobe and there was a Colt .45 pistol and four grams of cocaine behind it . . . So Max wasn’t expecting any uninvited guests. We’re still in the middle of DNA tests, and there’s no sense in speculating about that.”

  Kannas took another bite of his sandwich. “Pretty thin stuff. We’re not going to solve this case tonight. But there’s one thing I keep wondering about.” In his typical manner, he finished his sandwich before continuing.

  Takamäki knew it was his turn to ask: “What?”

  “There was a perfectly good Sony TV, a high-quality DVD player, and an Xbox, but no movies or games. It made me think there must have been some there before.”

  Takamäki was about to speak, then decided t
o wait. Kannas had something else to say. It was his style to hold back.

  He took another bite of sandwich. “Now, I’m not sure about this, but there was something odd about the burglaries earlier in the evening. Three break-ins, but apparently nothing was taken. In one of them the men from the security company were on the scene in three minutes, but the burglar was already gone. It was as if he was looking for something and didn’t find it. He dropped his wallet at one of the stores. The lieutenant on duty thought they’d get him tomorrow, but now I’m not so sure . . .”

  “Not so sure about what?” Takamäki asked.

  “Johan Svensson was his name. I checked his background. It seems he got out of Sörkkä this morning.”

  “Pickax Svensson?” Suhonen said.

  Kannas nodded. The nickname was from the crime that had gotten Svensson sentenced to ten years in prison. His victim had been a friend of his. They’d had a fight over the last can of beer.

  Suhonen pulled out his phone and stepped away. A couple of minutes later he came back. “Someone I know at the jail says that Pickax Svensson shared a cell with Karstu for a few months this summer and that Karstu came to visit him just last week.”

  * * *

  The ex-convicts’ apartment house was in a condemned two-story brick building next to the rail yard. It was soon to be demolished, but until then a convict aid organization had found lodging there for guys who had nowhere else to go.

  The building was only a couple of kilometers from the police station, so the three of them got there in just a few minutes. The light in the yard was dim but the black text on the white sign next to the door was clearly visible: No alcohol, no drugs. All bags will be searched.

  Joutsamo glanced instinctively at her shoulder holster. She preferred not to carry it, but this time she’d even made Takamäki bring his revolver with him. Suhonen didn’t need to be reminded—he routinely carried a weapon.

  Takamäki tried the door. It was locked. There had once been a window in the door but it was covered with plywood. Takamäki knocked on the wood.

  He waited and then knocked again before a sleepy long-haired man came to open the door. “What the hell’s the emergency?”

  “Police,” Takamäki said grimly, and pushed inside.

  The watchman, who was wearing gray sweatpants and a worn New York Giants cap, backed up into the hallway. “Room eight. Second floor,” he said, and stepped aside.

  “Merry Christmas,” Suhonen said as he passed, grabbing the master key from the rack behind the guard’s desk.

  The building had once been housing for railroad employees. The hallway was narrow and the staircase curved and steep. The apartments were all single rooms. The kitchens, toilets, and showers were in the hall. Religious posters were glued to the walls, warning of the curse of liquor.

  Takamäki went first, up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs was a black sign with yellow letters: Don’t drink. Don’t fight. Believe in yourself.

  There was good reason for a sign like that. Nine out of ten prison inmates had a drinking problem and just-released prisoners like these were in great danger of backsliding. They had no homes, no family, no jobs. All they had were old friends. The old cycle, waiting for them.

  Room eight was on the left, at the end of the hall. The hall lights only half worked, but their eyes were beginning to adjust to the dimness. They had their coats open. Takamäki wondered if he should have his gun out. Once he did that, it might start to become a habit.

  Joutsamo listened with her ear at the door for a moment, then shook her head. She didn’t hear anything.

  The door didn’t look very sturdy—they could have opened it with a good tug—but Suhonen held out the master key and glanced at the others. Takamäki nodded. Joutsamo’s hand went to the butt of her pistol.

  Suhonen shoved the key quickly into the lock, twisted it, and yanked the door open fast. Takamäki went in first.

  “What the hell?” a man said in irritation, jumping out of his bed. It was Johan Svensson, in his underwear. His body was thin. You could see his ribs. His gray hair hung limp and tangled and his eyes seemed frozen in his head.

  Joutsamo followed Takamäki in, pulling her Glock and holding it in front of her when she saw the knife in Svensson’s hand.

  “Filthy pigs,” Svensson rasped, his eyes darting, looking for an exit. There was none. The best he could have done was the window behind him, but the plywood that covered the opening would have slowed him down considerably.

  “Merry Christmas,” Takamäki said calmly. “There’s no need to panic. We just want to talk to you.”

  Svensson was confused. He tilted his head to one side, like a bewildered dog. But he still had the knife in his hand.

  The room was almost perfectly square. The bed was on the left, a writing table and chair on the right. In the back corner there was an old tube television. On the wall were two anti-alcohol posters like the ones in the hallway.

  “Why don’t you sit down on the bed so we can chat?” Takamäki said.

  “I . . . I . . . um . . .”

  “Just sit down, Johan,” Takamäki said, stepping forward to stand next to the desk. He turned the chair around and sat down on it. Joutsamo stood next to the door, aiming at the knife. Suhonen stood next to her.

  Svensson sniffled, dropped the knife, and slumped onto the bed. He buried his head in his hands. “I . . . I . . .”

  Takamäki could see that Joutsamo was ready to rush in and handcuff the man, but he gestured for her to come inside and put away her gun. She and Suhonen remained standing next to the door.

  Then Takamäki noticed the Xbox games on the floor. They were smashed, as if they’d been thrown against the wall. The discs had fallen out of the green boxes.

  “Johan,” Takamäki said, but Svensson didn’t respond.

  Joutsamo was still watching the red-handled knife on the floor. It was lying right at Svensson’s feet. He could pick it up quickly and attack Takamäki with it. Joutsamo thought the lieutenant was taking a needless risk.

  “Johan,” Takamäki said again, in a calm tone. “Look at me.”

  The man slowly raised his eyes.

  “Why?” Takamäki asked.

  “I’m not confessing anything,” the man said weakly. “I haven’t done anything.”

  Takamäki peered momentarily at one of the computer games on the floor—a hockey game. “So that isn’t what you were looking for.”

  Svensson shook his head. “No . . . no . . . it isn’t.”

  Takamäki picked up another game—Battlefield. “Or this one?”

  “No . . .” Svensson said, his eyes sharpening. “I, um, I’ll tell you everything. If you do me one favor.”

  “What?” Takamäki asked. They didn’t have much physical evidence from their preliminary investigation of the crime scene, so a confession would make it quite a bit easier to close the case. At this point there were only a few police, ambulance crew, and staff who were aware of how Max Karstu was killed. If Svensson knew the method used to kill him, it would link him to the crime, but the man had to say it in an official interrogation.

  “I need FGS,” Svensson said. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  Takamäki looked confused. What the hell was FGS?

  “FGS,” Svensson repeated. “That’s all. It’s important.”

  “Final Great Soldier,” Suhonen said from the doorway. “I managed to get one by ordering in advance. Lucked out.”

  * * *

  The clock read 2:55 a.m. Takamäki sat in his car in front of an apartment house. He’d been waiting there for ten minutes, but he was in no hurry.

  Snow had started to fall quietly. He wiped off the windshield.

  The area around the building was completely deserted. No one to be seen. No one coming home drunk from the bar, no one taking their dog out to pee, no newspaper carrier, no one returning from the night shift. No one. Takamäki enjoyed the moment of quiet.

  He saw the lights first, at the corner,
and soon Suhonen was parking next to him. Suhonen got in the passenger seat and handed him the game. Final Great Soldier was the international hit of the season. Takamäki remembered his own son mentioning it now. It had been sold out everywhere for months.

  Takamäki had blue wrapping paper and tape with him. It only took a moment to wrap the package. In the cramped car it didn’t look exactly wonderful, but authentic. He taped the card to it. The text was short: For Paul. Merry Christmas. I love you. Daddy Johan.

  Takamäki got out of the car and put the package safely under his coat. It would be a shame if the ink ran.

  The two of them walked together toward the door of the building. Svensson had told them the door code. The door to the fifth-floor apartment would read, Lind.

  “Why did Pickax kill Karstu?” Suhonen asked, although he could almost guess the answer.

  Svensson had been taken from his apartment to the station. Takamäki and Joutsamo had stayed to question him. The interrogation had been delayed for an hour waiting for the attorney to arrive, but that had given Suhonen time to pick up the game.

  “When they were in jail, Max promised to pick up a copy of the game for Svensson, and Svensson promised it to his thirteen-year-old son for Christmas over the phone. He said it was a really, really big deal. So on Christmas Eve, right after Svensson got out of jail, Max had forgotten about the whole thing, which made Svensson fly into a rage. When he didn’t find a copy of the game in the break-ins, he went to Karstu’s apartment. Max just laughed at Pickax for getting so worked up about it, and things quickly got out of hand. Svensson didn’t plan to do it. It just happened, in a fit of rage.”

  “Did he describe the method, how Max was killed?”

  Takamäki nodded. “He’s going back to prison.”

  The elevator carried them to the fifth floor. Suhonen opened the elevator door.

  “What’s so great about this game?” Takamäki asked, looking at the package in his hand.

  Suhonen laughed. “I don’t know. It’s not your typical shoot-’em-up. There’s a right side to be on and you feel like you’re doing good. It’s hard to explain. There’s something compelling about the conflict.”